It reads, “Bad Voodoo = Good Hockey,” which is fun.
I think…
Though a part of me can’t stop thinking about the woman who used to help my mom with her roses when I was in middle school. Elba was half Haitian, half Irish, and practiced an earth-based form of witchcraft. She was sweet, committed to helping plants thrive, and very serious about warning young girls away from black magic.
“Every hex will come back on you tenfold, love,” she told me once, while we were dead-heading the rose bushes. “Steer clear of the dark arts, Charlotte. No matter how tempted you might be, justice isn’t worth the price of bad voodoo.”
Looking back, I suppose it wasn’t really appropriate for her to be discussing black magic with a thirteen-year-old. But Elba had six grown daughters and knew a thing or two about middle-school girls. Namely, that they’re vicious little monsters, subconsciously processing their own anger about how much it sucks to be a teenage girl by tormenting as many other girls as possible.
The memory gives me empathy for the tween rolling her eyes at her mother at the wine cart as I pause to buy a “get ready to socialize” glass of chardonnay.
It’s also a good reminder that I’ve been through tougher times than this. Yes, being cast as the pathetic, unworthy, shallow ex-girlfriend in an article my entire social circle has been gossiping about for days sucks. But being thirteen sucked way worse.
My cell buzzes in my clutch, as if in agreement.
Then buzzes again. And again.
Uh-oh.
This doesn’t bode well…
Dodging a family with four kids wearing matching Voodoo jerseys—the one where Hughey, the Voodoo doll mascot’s eyes are burning in a legitimately eerie way—I down my wine in a gulp, seek shelter against a pillar, and pull out my phone.
Makena: Well, Char, it looks like my terrible luck has fucked me again. Extra hard. With no lube.
Makena: You’ll never guess why Elly and I are going to be late.
Makena: Seriously, you will NEVER guess.
Makena: Because never in your wildest dreams would you believe such a thing that has happened this afternoon would actually happen. To anyone. Ever.
Ifrown as I type back:Oh no, what’s up? Are you okay? Do you want me to grab you guys a glass of wine so it’s waiting when you get here?
Elly is married to the Voodoo’s star forward—I planned the reception, and it was epic, thank you very much—and Makena is obviously dating, now engaged, to a player, too. We’re planning to sit together in the WAG section and gossip during the breaks. Elly got a babysitter for her daughter and everything.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Then Makena launches into her usual rapid-fire onslaught, leaving me scrambling to get a text in edgewise.
Makena: Sadly, no. I have no idea how long it’s going to take us to get there.
Makena: Honestly, we might not make it all.
Makena: I’m SO SORRY to leave you to navigate the WAG watering hole alone at your very first game. But so far, the raccoon does NOT seem inclined to cooperate. At all!
Charlotte: The raccoon?
Makena: YES! There’s a raccoon in my food truck!
Makena: A RACCOON IS LOOSE IN MY BABY, RUBBING ITS BIG HAIRY BALLS ALL OVER MY APPLIANCES AND DEVOURING EVERYTHING IT CAN GET ITS PAWS ON, CHARLOTTE!!
Makena: And it’s HUGE.
Makena: Like the size of a small sheep. And it’s not all fur. It is GIRTHY under there. Elly tried to shoo it out with a broom, but it jumped on the end, and the entire straw part broke off.
Makena: Then it ate all the sliders I was going to bring to the game as secret purse snacks.
Makena: Then it washed its hands in my glass of lemonade!
